Page 60 of Protection (Mobsters + Billionaires 2)
Her stern expression breaks, and she smiles wide as she pats his face. “Thanks, Hop. Now, let’s figure out where we can get a puffer jacket this time of year.”
I look between these two and hope to God they never coordinate in a real way. “What—and I say this with all due respect—the fuck are you two talking about?”
Ryder thumbs a gesture at Holden. “We can get a lookalike jacket and have him wear it in Mads’ favorite places.”
Holden shrugs. “If I can pretend my gross politician clients are Brad Pitt, I can pretend to be Mads for an afternoon.”
Fucking Christ.
* * *
Luca’s menjoin us at his warehouse, and we spend an hour agreeing on protocol and practicing what to do. Holden’s right—he’s a natural at pretending. Makes me wonder what he was pretending the one time he spent an evening with me, but that is neither here nor there.
The last time Mads saw the stalker was at his favorite coffee place, so we start there. Holden heads into Addiction and stands in line, then orders the same drink Mads always gets. We’re not trying to make people think he’s Mads close up, but Cat, the barista who always takes care of him, looks at Holden a little sideways. She says nothing, pushing the sugary drink across the counter to him.
He makes his way to the booth and sips. Meanwhile, I’m outside, out of the range of surveillance cameras, deep in the shadows between buildings.
Holden is at his table for less than ten minutes when I spot the stalker Mads described, right on time. Motherfucker. Looking both ways, he crosses the street and walks right past the window.
Unfortunately, Holden doesn't follow the rules as well as Mads. Instead of keeping his eyes on his coffee, he turns and looks dead on at the stalker. The guy whips his head around, then takes off, unfortunately for him, right at me. He passes the alley, and I grab him, yanking him in.
He's lighter than he looks, which knocks me off-balance. I land on my ass, and he rolls off me in a practiced move.
Focus, Anthony.
I reach for him, rabbit-punching his ribs, and he spins away from me, his booted foot coming right toward my head. I block the kick at the last minute, but he falls down on me like a WWE wrestler, elbow straight to my solar plexus, and I nearly lose my breath.
Gasping, I swing wild, glancing off his cheek, slowing him down a little. He brings his knee up, and I twist, barely saving my balls from a hellacious racking. I roll again and grab his shoulder while he's off-balance, then slam him into the concrete, wondering where the fuck Luca’s men are.
Right as I think I've got a hold on him, he wriggles an arm loose and knuckle-punches me right in the throat like a bitch. Fine. I get him on his back and bring my knee up, racking him hard.
Two can play that game, motherfucker.
Only, there’s nothing there to rack, and I’m met with a self-satisfied grin.
Shit. Ryder was right.
Thankfully, Luca’s men finally show up and help me wrangle the woman, snapping handcuffs on her wrists right as our getaway vehicle pulls up to the alley. We shuffle her into the car and take off, heading straight for Luca’s warehouse.
Hopper is waiting for us.
We pat her down and remove her coat while she stands, stoic as her pale eyes take in our every move. This woman, whoever she is, is thin, muscular, and about as tall as I am. Everything about her is angular—cheekbones, jawline, pale brows, even her shock of white-blonde hair is in a precision military cut.
She’s wearing menswear, and from a quick glance, it’d be easy to clock her as a man. Upon more sustained inspection, she’s still rather androgynous.
“Pronouns?”
“She/her,” she responds in a distinctly Eastern bloc accent.
Hopper, his face disturbingly serious, leans in and teases out the three-bar cross necklace partially hidden under her shirt. “Russian Orthodox,” he whispers in my ear.
I nod, then greet her in Russian. She responds, and things get a little more complicated.
“She’s not Russian, Hop. She’s Ukrainian.”
“Tak,” she says. Yes.
“Oh.” He looks over at the woman and grimaces. “Oh.”
